Deus-Ex Machina

It is no secret that I’ve been feeling rootless. Here in my hometown I am transient, an unfamiliar, making the routine drive home through city dark and darkened sky. Perhaps this is the reason that I’ve thrown myself into work, to bind the hours of solitude to another name, endless shifts to shift the barren weight.

Take me from here, laurel years, when youth was still momentous.

One hour I watched from my tower perch. In every city, I’ve stood by the window pane; pain upon pane, time, that slow devil, takes me piece by piece, the shadowed man with the flapping skin, heavy boots and shining booze, to drown out dreams beside a flap-down toilet. I’ve watched it from every window, felt each second through the glass. In the end, I’m still alive, still confused; when cause has found me, will I know to stand?

Youth is wasted on the young, lizard baskers passing into sun.

How green the trees and nobody swinging. No carefree voice in this silent city. How was it said to me then: you can run out to the wild and new, greet every face with beaming bliss, but it’s the same every which way; folks a’ screaming and rockets kiss. Trouble a’ brewing in the air. But was I a child of nature too, how green the trees I once swung. Was the world ever pure?

Rain to rain, to sow the hills an envious shade. The drowning torrent watered me wise to love this life. It is no secret that I’ve lost my muse; see these sad words I still abuse. But purpose comes without repose. Ah, the visions that I will have; break a way into sun, ’till waxen wings sing me undone.

Wish me a voice, a stronger pen to pen away the candy coats; the things we buy to hide from truth, veils over suffering and the nude; my face, grim and sodden, our wilted peace. Wish me a heart, a stronger beat to beat a tune; when the world’s to end, at least I had you.

So the setting sun begins to mold, youth was wasted when I was young, dive-in bars and raucous fun. Now pitter patter of the feet. I must have been a bad man then, to return in bruised defeat. Starved and bound, a hungry ghost.

[Original Post Date: 02/07/2005]

Spiritual Ballet

Last night, I tore down all the wall decorations in my room and hid them behind a bookcase. The walls giggled with obvious pleasure, grateful for the extraction of golden pinnings and paper masks. I, on the other hand, exhaled slow relief; the gamut of colors had been like an energy sink, a distraction to my astral projections. No wonder I had languished these past years: my subconscious was mired in the ever dissipating streets of a water-colored Paris!

As I slept that night, my life-essence refracted into prismatic beams and slow-danced across pristine plains of reflected intensity, as if a celestial disco ball rebounding through all points of time. These chaotic patterns must have channeled out my eyelids, which explains the terrible headache that besieged me upon waking this morning. I didn’t sleep a wink, having been too busy pirohuetting across the walls! Spiritual ballet sure is tiring.

Weekend in Brief 9

May 05-06 Reeling from a dullish throb at The Basement, I step out seeking freshness and am accosted by a yarning poet, a wandering bum. For blocks we navigate through the downtown corridors, accompanied only by the silver rustle of weathered sheets and words. My hands shook, heavy with applause, and I slip a little green prayer for a life heavy with art. Perhaps my days were once filled with fire as well.

Weekend in Brief 8

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood–
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

Theodore Roethke

Apr 28-29 Simple. The night sidles in, cold sweat. They hand you glass after glass; what luck, you say, to chase the spirits with spirits. By ember glow of dimmed lamps and orange music, you raise your poison and toast the sober devils. Gin. Vodka. A long-island coffin. You drink down this cold impotence alone, quickly, to free your hands. Silent pantomine. A torrent trickles into the headspace, an echoing drip behind a wall with a crack. All around, the roar of sounds; you wobble to and fro, leaning through velvet despair, watching…

Somehow the misanthrope.

Like one acquainted with the night, you follow the concrete steps in search for gold, wondering when wrong became right; here, at night, they pave the streets with heartless stone. By day, we walk upon them and lose our names. Hungover, you empty one of many pockets into a gutter, collapsing. Unaware of the freedom in your shoes.